Chasing Peace Page 2

  She dressed well, but with clothing from mall stores, not exclusive boutiques. Her shoes are fashionable flats, but nothing special. Her hair looked good; maybe her best asset, but the ugly expression she wore overshadowed everything else. She might have been pretty if she weren’t so irate.

  Annie paused and I jumped in. “If I turn up dead, point the cops in her direction. I don’t think she likes me much.”

  Annie turned around to see a friendly winsome countenance. “Oh Julie, yeah, she wanted to sit by me, but I couldn’t take another minute. I’m looking for friends, not sycophants.”

  “Dressing down a little bit might not attract so much attention.” Yeah, I said it, but I’m not sure it will do much good. It looks like privilege is in Annie’s genes and clothing probably won’t make much difference to the observant among us. “Most of us don’t look past clothing to see the person beneath.”

  “See,” said Annie with a big cheesy grin, “I knew you were someone different, someone genuine. So, are you going to the freshman barbecue tomorrow?”

  “Nah. I think it’s pretty lame. We’ll meet people in class, study groups, ya know. That’s enough for me.”

  “We’ll also meet people in the dorms. Where’s your room?” Hope shimmered in Annie’s eyes as she asked the question, making her loneliness even more obvious.

  The thought that I would let her down churned in my gut, but I couldn’t avoid the question. “I live off campus. I can’t imagine that I’ll be hanging out in the dorms.”

  “What!” she screeched. “I thought all freshmen had to live on campus!” Incensed by the injustice, Annie’s irritation came through loud and clear.

  “Not if they’re older students or still living with their parents.”

  “So you’re living with your parents?” She looked perplexed as she asked.

  “I’m not. I’m twenty-one so I pushed to remain off campus. There are others too you know. Former military aren’t required to stay in the dorms, although most freshmen do.”

  She continued on a rant and I half listened, “Sterling? Sterling?” Annie’s voice interrupts my thoughts.”

  Jerking my head back in her direction, my glazed eyes focus on her face, register the question in her eyes. “Sorry. I thought I saw someone I knew.” I’m not sure why, but I fibbed.

  “Yeah, I saw him too.” A grin quirked her mouth, laughter overflowing as I smiled back in foolish whimsy.

  The bus tour ended had ended back where we’d started and I still don’t know where any of my classes are, great. Thank God for navigation on my phone. It’s the only good feature left on the old piece of crap.

  “Maybe we can hang out at your house sometime,” Annie says as we step down from the bus. “I have a car.” I could hear the hope in her voice.

  “Yeah sure.” My answer is noncommittal because at the moment I don’t want to totally blow her off. My car could die at any minute and I might need a ride.

  It’s mercenary, I know, but this is my second chance and I’m going to grasp, claw, seize and secure every opportunity to make it through college and make something of my life. All I have to do is think about Emma and my resolve is iron clad.

  Chapter 2

  I’m polishing barware and thinking about Annie while we’re slow before the conferences let out. Normally, I’d think about Emma and Brock and my mom, but after yesterday I’ve had Annie on my mind.

  “Hey sweetie. Daydreaming I see.”

  “Hi Lyla.” I have a huge case of hero worship where Lyla’s concerned and I’m sure she knows it based on the silly smile I wear every time we talk. “I’m thinking about someone I met at orientation yesterday.”

  “Oooh a boy huh?” Lyla is something else. She’s older but still edgy, until she says something a mother might. Okay, not my mother, but the kind of mother I wish I had.

  “No, not a boy,” I say emphatic and a bit snippy, but that just makes her laugh like a mother teasing her child about a crush. “Seriously, I’ve been thinking about a girl I met today.”

  “Well tell me about it.”

  I don’t talk right away, choosing my words with care because Lyla knows me better than anyone. She used to be my mom’s best friend and will always be an honorary auntie to me, although she’s much like an aging rocker, current and interesting and unique, yet older. Lyla manages the bar and I’m something of an apprentice.

  Tall like me, but even more lean, Lyla has biceps clearly visible just at the edge of her T-shirt. I have to wear a jacket. Heck, everyone has to wear a jacket except Lyla. When I think about whipcord strength, that’s Lyla.

  She’s far too tan and wrinkled beyond her years from sun and cigarettes and booze. Her jet black hair, even darker than mine, is short and spiky where it parts. A longer swath of blonde hangs over her right eye.

  Lyla uses that curtain of hair to secretly keep an eye on the clientele and they don’t even know it. She’s taught me some of her best bartending tricks and I know that if college doesn’t work out, I can always make a living tending bar. It isn’t my dream, but it’s a solid fall-back plan.

  I work for Lyla at a nice downtown hotel, not a luxury place, but a decent conference and business-travel hotel. Lyla offered me the job when I couldn’t find anything else and I’m eternally grateful.

  “Her name is Annie and I think she’s lonely,” I say, still polishing barware.

  “So you decide to be her friend?”

  “Not actually. She found me and I think she decided to be my friend.”

  “Well that’s interesting. Why do you think she’s lonely?”

  “I don’t know. We didn’t talk about it.” Lyla is silent, expecting more and when I can’t stand the quiet any longer, I blurt out, “I think she’s really wealthy.”

  “So? What difference does that make?”

  “None to me I suppose, but she doesn’t seem to trust the people who want to be friends. I think they usually want something from her.”

  Lyla didn’t say anything for a minute and then she did. “Maybe she thinks you need a friend.”

  “Yeah, except I don’t. I’m not looking for friends. I don’t care if I meet anyone. I don’t even try. Besides, I’d make a terrible friend,” I say, thinking about past relationships and how devastating their ends.

  “You’re a great friend Sterling and I’m old. Just imagine how much fun it’ll be to have a friend your own age.”

  My gut crunches when I realize that while Lyla has been a great friend to me, I’m sure I’ve never returned the favor. I confess my mercenary thoughts thinking maybe I should. “As we parted, Annie told me she had a car and I thought she might be a good friend to have if I ever need a ride.”

  “Maybe you really do need a friend,” Lyla says, shaking her head, censure in her piercing gaze, “someone who will teach you what it means to be a friend.”

  “But Lyla, I have you and you’re all I can handle right now,” I jest.

  My attempt to make light of the situation falls flat so I don’t say anything more. Lyla really understands people and if she thinks I need a friend, there might be something to it.

  The glassware is ready and I move on to restocking the garnish, slicing lemons and limes, fishing olives and onions out of the jar and such until I hear the piano. We haven’t had a piano player since May and it’s nice, a little cheesy, but nice. The piano is on the other side of the bar and I look to see who’s playing.

  “Checking out our new piano player I see.” Lyla’s back and she’s nudging me in the ribs with her elbow, making fun of me. “What do you think?”

  “He’s good.”

  “Yep, especially for his age.”

  I’m trying to slice fruit, but my eyes stray to the piano man.

  “He looks young and that’s a really nice suit.” I’d worked at a dry cleaner before and after school my senior year and I could spot an expensive suit a mile away. I wonder why he’s working here.

  “Here they come,” Lyla says, moving away from
me as customers begin to pour through the door in waves.

  Lyla serves the bar while I mix drinks for the cocktail waitresses. I lose track of time and the piano man.

  “Hello ... Hellllooooo.” She is loud and brash, but she really captures my attention because her voice is over the top sarcastic. I look up to see a woman in her mid to late thirties sitting at the bar waving and hollering. I hold up one finger, no not that one. I’m scrambling to keep up and ask for a minute to finish my current drinks.

  Lyla has twenty-two seats at the bar while I have more than a hundred on the floor. She provides backup for me when it’s busy and I cover the bar when she runs back to the stockroom or ducks out for a smoke.

  “Don’t you put me off. I want a drink and I want it now or you’ll be looking for a new job.”

  I turn her direction as I place the last cocktail on Trish’s serving tray.

  “Good luck,” she whispers, grabbing the drinks and scooting away.

  “What can I get you?”

  “Singapore Sling and don’t use any of that bathtub swill. I want the good stuff.”

  I know this woman, with her severely tailored red suit that calls for attention among the darker suited men. She is successful, but not because of intellect or compassion or skill. She’s successful because she’s a bully. I pull out a tall glass as she turns to the man next to her to grouse about the service in this place. I half listen, imagining her employees working long hours with little recognition while she uses their paychecks, their livelihood, to bend them to her will. I imagine she hollers, demeans and maybe even hits her employees, while cozying up to the business leaders and taking credit for her team’s work and preferential treatment for herself. She uses her womanhood to get ahead when necessary and she uses gender discrimination to her benefit.

  She isn’t likeable or confident or happy and she’s single when she’d rather be married. The chance to have children is quickly passing her by. I’d feel sorry for her except I’m at her mercy right now as she threatens my livelihood. I’m not worried, but that doesn’t mean I want her hanging out near me at the bar all night.

  Adding the cherry, I pass over the drink as the first strains of “Lady in Red” float from the piano. This is my reprieve.

  “I think he’s playing for you. Why don’t you head over to the piano and I’ll have a waitress set up a tab.”

  “You think?” Now shiny and eager, the sarcasm gone, she questions without confidence.

  “He’s looking right at you. Go enjoy the music.”

  Sliding off her stool, she saunters over to the piano. I feel bad for the piano man, guilt like a chunk of ice taking up residence in my gut. I did a terrible thing to a new coworker and even worse, the “lady in red” stayed at the piano all evening trying to sink her claws into the poor guy. Now I’m in his debt.

  The night finally slowed after midnight. I dry glasses while Lyla washes. “So whaddya think of our new piano player?”

  “I think I did him wrong, throwing him to the wolves on his first day,” I confess, recounting my interaction with the “lady in red” who is, as we speak, half sprawled on the piano, her red skirt stretched tight over her ass pointed in our direction.

  “Looks like he can hold his own,” she says, the gravel in her voice crunching with disappointment.

  My eyes slide sideways wondering what she didn’t say, but Lyla turns away. “Let me grab a smoke before you take off. Okay?”

  * * *

  Saturdays are always slower nights. You’d think the opposite, but we don’t cater to people who while away the hours in self indulgence. Our hotel serves business travelers and they like to be home on Saturday nights leaving us quiet and lonely. Don’t get me wrong, we still have guests. There are plenty of people ready for a little self-indulgence, but not nearly as many as we see on Fridays. So it’s a little slow tonight.

  I make it to the midpoint of my shift without dying of boredom. I’m not quite as sure I’ll make it through the last half, especially when Logan walks in.

  “Oh shit.” I freeze, wanting to duck down behind the bar so he can’t see me, but I remain glued in position, frozen. It’s like fate demands the confrontation, whether I want it or not. Distress seethes and then flares into flame licking at me, consuming me, piece by piece until there’s nothing left. I tried to put it behind me, but in reality three or four months will never be long enough. A lifetime isn’t even long enough.

  Logan spots me and veers my way. I can’t move. He’s an all-American boy. Tall and gorgeous with thick blonde hair and bright blue eyes. His features have the symmetry of Adonis. Perfect spacing between the eyes, a straight slope to his nose, lips chiseled, a cajoling smile that can melt a heart across the room, mine included.

  His years as an athlete gave his body a similar symmetry. Broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist. Long legs prowl toward me. Biceps and deltoids bulge with strength. Slabs of prominent muscle coil, ready to strike. Logan stands tall and proud and beautiful. Is it right to call a man beautiful? No matter, it’s beyond true.

  Everything comes easy to Logan. He’s an only child and his parents indulge him. Life proved carefree. I imagine that’s why he finds it so easy to take what he wants, consequences be damned. I last saw him at Emma’s funeral in May. He arrived angry then too. As I watch his approach today, fists clenched, a grim militant slant to his lips, tension barely leashed, he’s angry still. I can’t blame him. I’m angry too.

  As he approached, I dismiss the threatening inferno building in his eyes. He has no more claim to anger than do I. It dominates, but he does not. He made his choice and I moved on until the world conspired against us leaving behind flagging confidence, intense guilt, self hatred and, yes, anger.

  Logan had played football in high school. I’d been smitten when he turned his attention my way. I’m pretty, but I’ve never been popular. I never tried out for cheerleading or sports or drama. I’m no socialite either. I was the loner, the girl who never quite fit in. I enjoyed my high school classes, while continually dreading the social interactions, until Logan turned his attention my way.

  We’d dated for more than a year, until I found him in bed with someone else. I’m sure there’d been others. I just didn’t want to admit it.

  As his hand shot out to grab my forearm, I heard a growl to my right coming from Lyla.

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  The spell broken, I could move again. I turned toward the sound and saw Lyla, hands planted on the bar, strength sizzling through every fiber of her being. She looked ready to launch herself over the bar, smashing her foot to his head on her way. I’d seen her spring from one side to the other, feet never touching until she reached the other side.

  “It’s okay Lyla. He has a right to be angry.”

  “Fine, but he keeps his hands off you.” Her words were terse and tight. She knew Logan and would defend me with the furor of the righteous. She didn’t understand my guilt.

  “Logan has never hurt me, at least not physically,” I said, watching Logan, not Lyla.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he mumbled, defeat weighing heavy.

  With a tilt of my head, I directed him to the cocktail service counter at the end of the bar. Lyla stands guard, arms crossed, chin jutting militantly.

  “Why aren’t you in school?” I ask. Logan has a football scholarship to an out-of-state college.

  “I should be, but I can’t handle it right now. I can’t concentrate on school or football. I can’t talk to people. I walk around angry, ready to punch something or someone. You’ve ruined my life Sterling.”

  “I’m sorry Logan,” I say, cringing at the ugly heat radiating from him. I understand his anger. I told him about Emma and he’s never forgiven me. He’d rather have never known. I know how he feels. It distracted me too, punished me, tortured me everyday. He’s suffering just like me and it’ll never stop, never go away.

  “You owe me. I want my life back,” he snapped.

  “I
want my life back too. Everyday I wish the torture away, only to pull it back again because when the pain is gone, Emma is gone. It’s the best reminder I have. It’s the best reminder we have Logan.”

  “Bullshit! This is not my fault, yet I’m the one suffering.” He gets louder fast. “I heard you’re going to Central. How is that fair? It’s your fault and now you’re off to school free and clear while I can barely get out of bed in the morning. I should be able to live my life, move on, forget about you, forget about Emma.”

  It felt like a punch to my gut. I hunched over, my arms wrapping around my middle, the breath whooshing from my lungs, the agony of suffocation. My breath comes back slowly as Logan watches me, outraged and resentful. His face glowing red, fierce, a snarl to his beautiful lips, but I had to say it.

  “Please don’t forget her,” I plead, placing my hand over his and then flinching when he tears his hands away.

  “It’s time for you to go.” Lyla’s voice broke through the tension with reason. Logan glared. I heard his tormented breathing over the silence. The piano had gone quiet. “Go on,” she continued calmly. “This is not the time or place.”

  He stepped back looking like he didn’t really know how he came to be here. He tried to leave, turning in the wrong direction.

  “That way,” Lyla pointed.

  I know that feeling, like an animal running from misery, looking to hide but becoming lost, trapped with no escape. I’d been there too. And then he no longer stood before me, gone when I blinked.

  “Are you okay baby?” Sometimes Lyla sounds just like a mother, although I’d never accuse her of looking like one. I made eye contact and then she touched me, a soft hand at my back, rubbing small circles, somehow knowing that I might lash out or run and hide at any moment.

  Chapter 3

  I’d forgotten how hard it is to sit in class all day. It’s Tuesday afternoon and I’ve made it through my first day and a half. Logic is neither a typical freshman class nor a requirement for biology majors, but it sounded interesting and filled some liberal arts requirements. Shoving my junk in my bag, I speculate that this class might help to keep my mind off things. If I could go through life without remembering, I’d be fine, so logic it is.